


In Deed and in Truth

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 5 + 1, Chronic Pain, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, ways that oliver shows that he cares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:46:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8488108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: SUMMARY:  Oliver loves with his actions.  Felicity doesn't always understand this.  A 5 + 1 story.  Generally inspired by this tumblr post.





	1. Coffee Coffee BuzzBuzzBuzz (Fall, 2013)

 

 

**Fall, 2013**

 

The thing about being conscripted into working as Oliver’s assistant is that it *should* offer Felicity more flexibility, since she basically runs the world of the CEO, who runs the world of the rest of the company. She _should_  be able to perfect her schedule, come in when she chooses, order lunch from the _best_  places (and put it on Oliver’s card)...

In reality, though, her work days are longer now. Mostly because Oliver is well-meaning but disorganized, and far more interested in their _nighttime activities_  -- than actually running QC. Which leaves her to fill in the blanks. It is, quite frankly, _exhausting_.

And that’s _before_ she gets to the lair to hack for heroes all night. 

She thought she relied on coffee _before_ , but three weeks into her new job as EA? She’s up to triple lattes in the morning just to get her brain on track, an afternoon shot of espresso when she starts tiredly leaning on things, and evenings full of drip coffee in the lair. Oliver has, at least, bought an efficient coffeemaker and a supply of high-end beans to keep her caffeinated. (Though he placed said coffeemaker riiiiiight outside the small changing area/curtained off shower stall, which is just cruel -- because she does _not_  need more temptation, _or_  more glimpses of Oliver in various stages of undress.)

So yeah. Coffee. A definite must. Possibly Felicity’s actual lifeblood at this point. 

Which is why the first morning she stumbles into Buzzzzz and is given free coffee, she simply pauses, frowning. Because free coffee? Yay! But why? “Wait, what?” she asks the barista. 

Vanessa gives her a harried grin and waves her towards the pickup counter. “You’re all set. Your coffee’s been paid for.” 

Felicity blinks, then glances around reflexively. Because strangers don’t just pay for your coffee unless they want something, right? Or-- “Oh, is this one of those pay it forward things?” she asks, brightening as she digs a $5 out of her purse. Because she read a story about this. Or the headline at least. Possibly a tweet? But she *definitely* heard about this kind of thing.

Vanessa just shrugs, already turning to the next customer in line. 

Felicity takes a step to the side, glancing down at the money in her hand. She’s already thrown a single in the tip jar, so she slaps the five dollar bill onto the counter and slides it towards Vanessa. “Okay, well, let’s keep paying it forward then!”

“Thanks!” says the teenager beside her with an overly full backpack and several neck scarves. He grins at her and offers her a high five. “You rock!”

“I kinda do sometimes!” Felicity agree, smacking his palm with hers. It’s true. She does. And now she has _free coffee_  too.

So she walks into the office feeling all warm and fuzzy about humanity and the kindness of the human spirit. Basically she’s at Mary Tyler Moore-about-to-toss-her-hat-in-the-air-level cheerfulness. 

Oliver gives her one of those strangely attractive, head-tilt-y, inquisitive looks when she grins at him across the length of his office, but he just nods hello. Felicity sets her (free!) coffee down, shrugs out of her bright purple coat -- newly purchased with her CEO’s assistant money -- and settles happily into her chair. Her _free coffee_ cheerfulness lasts right up until Isabel arrives in a huff because... well, because of _whatever_  today’s problem is. 

There’s always a problem, according to Isabel, and it’s never something Felicity can solve. In fact, it usually seems like Isabel considers every single problem at least _partially_  Felicity’s fault. Which is infuriating. Which burns up energy. Which leaves Felicity needing even _more_ coffee, and it’s basically a vicious, caffeinated cycle. 

The rest of the day goes not-super-well at work, and modestly successful at hero-ing, and Felicity collapses into bed just before 1 a.m.

The next morning, Felicity literally runs into Buzzzzz. She has a call to set up for Oliver in seventeen minutes (he’s _hopeless_  with the conference bridge), and she’s a solid three minute jog from the office. Or _maybe_  a four or five minute jog considering she has to compromise speed for balance in these beautiful four-inch heels. But, goddamnit, they are adorable and they make her calves look amazing, so -- fair trade. 

Vanessa is working the espresso machine this morning, and a relatively young man that Felicity doesn’t recognize is at the register. He seems blandly pleasant, despite a truly unfortunate tattoo/piercing combo on his chin and some sort of artwork drawn on his nametag instead of an actual name. Felicity smiles and orders a triple vanilla latte. As he’s about to ring her up, Vanessa glances over and half-yells, “Wait, no, that’s Felicity.”

Felicity glances between Vanessa and her tattooed colleague. “I am,” she agrees, somewhat belatedly because (a) she’s uncaffeinated, and (b) she’s not sure why her name matters at the moment?

The teenager behind the register gives her a skeptical look, then turns back to Vanessa. “Okay, and?”

Vanessa glowers at him. “Her drink is paid for. Remember?”

“Oh, right,” the teenager says flatly. Then he turns an impressively neutral expression to Felicity and adds, “Your drink is paid for.”

This time, Felicity is confused. And uncaffeinated and *definitely* sleep deficient, so she’s maybe a _bit_  snappish when she demands, “By whom?”

The sullen teenager shrugs an indifferent shoulder and turns to the person in line behind her. “Can I help you?”

“You’re not done helping _me_ ,” Felicity interjects. “Who paid for my coffee? And was there even a pay it forward thing yesterday?”

“Hey, Felicity,” Vanessa calls, and when Felicity glances over, the barista is holding up a coffee cup enticingly. “Your latte.”

Grumpily, Felicity steps over to the pickup counter and fixes Vanessa with the look she usually gives Oliver when he’s being all *Oliver* about things. “Paid for by?”

Vanessa looks honestly confused when she asks, “Does it really matter? It’s free coffee.” 

Felicity considers her point. “True. I mean, who turns down free coffee?” Then she frowns. “Unless there’s a catch. Is there a catch? Is this a carrot meant to entice me into doing something wrong? Which, incidentally, is a weird metaphor,” she muses, “because I don’t actually like carrots that much.” 

At this point, Vanessa is carefully ignoring her, focusing on the espresso machine. 

Felicity weighs her options. “I just really hate mysteries,” she tells Vanessa, who nods obligingly. “Can you tell me if there’s just some sort of All Felicitys Drink Free policy in place this week, or if this is specific to _me_?”

Vanessa flashes a tight smile. “It’s just you. I really can’t say anything else, sorry.” She froths milk -- loudly -- until Felicity gives up and turns away. Because, honestly, she’s down to like ten minutes until Oliver’s call and she can’t stay here and argue anymore.

Dammit.

But she doesn’t actually give up pondering this free-coffee mystery, because, honestly, you _should_  look a gift horse in the mouth! Not to see how old it is and get all ungrateful about a gift -- because _rude_! -- but to make sure you understand all the terms and conditions of the gift horse. Or, in this case, the gift coffee. What if someone is buttering her up to try to, like, _lure her over to the dark side_? 

It might seem like an absurd concern, but it gnaws at Felicity the rest of that day, _and_  the next day, when another barista, Hector, refuses to take her money, saying only that she’s not allowed to pay for coffee at Buzzzzz anymore.

Which is why she finds herself spiraling a little.

Well, she’s spiraling because of that gnawing concern, _plus_ it’s a mystery to solve, and _also_  she drank her triple vanilla latte, like, _really_  fast, and went from sluggishly confused to _amped up problem solving mode_ mid-conversation. “What if they’re trying to _butter me up_ , Oliver?” she demands. “What if some Big Bad out there has figured out that I’m not _just_  your EA and has-- Wait,” she interrupts herself, “I wasn’t implying that I’m more than your EA in, like, any sort of _sexual_  way.”

“Right,” Oliver agrees, with the slightest arch of his eyebrow.

“Just that, you know, you and me having some sort of relationship -- _friendship_  -- doesn’t make a whole lot of sense without, you know, your _little green thing_.”

Oliver winces. “Let’s not call it that.”

Felicity tips her head back and whines, “Why, brain? _Why_  do you do this?”

“Felicity,” Oliver prods gently, and when she chances a look at him, he seems mildly amused instead of offended.

So Felicity barrels on to her point. “Right. Okay. So what if the Big Bad--”

“ _What_  Big Bad?” Diggle wonders. “The streets have been just the normal kind of rough the past few weeks.”

“I don’t know!” Felicity throws her hands in the air and starts pacing. “The _next_  Big Bad who is, obviously, still in planning mode instead of rampant violence mode! Which, yay! But also what if _that_  guy knows about, _you know_ , and so he’s buying me free coffee as some kind of _superhero psy-ops_?”

Diggle, who’s made himself quite comfortable on the leather couch near the window, laughs outright, but Oliver just seems confused. And _how_  can a man with the sheer physical presence, ridiculous strength, and intimidating nighttime hobbies of Oliver Queen just crinkle his brow and tip his head slightly to wind up looking as adorable as a fuzzy, puzzled puppy 

It’s unfair for him to rock the hot bad boy look *and* the snuggle-able cuteness look. Just -- every single thing _about_  him is unfair, basically.

And... Felicity realizes somewhat belatedly that she’s kind of glaring at him. She scrunches her face up ad refocuses on the actual conversation they’re having.

“Cyclops?” Oliver asks, clearly bewildered.

Felicity plunks her now-empty, light blue paper cup onto the small table near Diggle and resumes pacing. “No, _psy-ops_. Psychological warfare. What if--?”

“Felicity,” Oliver interrupts, placing himself in her path so that she has to stop short or walk right into him, “do you think some unnamed Big Bad--” Felicity grins in delight when Oliver uses her favorite *Buffy*ism-- “is really out there pouring time and energy into giving you free coffee on the off chance you might -- what? Turn on me?" 

“Do you have any idea what I’d do for coffee at 6:30 a.m. when I’ve only gotten four hours of sleep?” she argues, poking his chest for emphasis. “I wouldn’t rule that scenario out completely.” 

Oliver rolls his eyes at her, so she pokes him a little harder. Which actually kind of hurts her finger a little bit.

Shaking her hand out, she steps back. “What if it’s meant to influence me, Oliver? Oh, my God -- what if it’s _poisoned_? Or drugged?”

“Felicity,” Oliver starts in that _let’s everybody just calm down_  tone of his. 

But Felicity whirls, pacing quickly to get out some of this jittery nervous energy. “What if I’ve been _compromised_ , Oliver? What if someone put something in this free coffee that makes me suggestible? This could be a real thing! There’s no reason why a random stranger would just start buying me coffee every day." 

“Feli--”

“No one does something like that without a reason!” She turns back to them, distraught, to find Oliver -- _grinning_  at her? She glares at him. “What’s with your face?” she demands.

He holds her gaze calmly. “You’re right.”

“What?” she breathes, stunned into at least momentary silence. She stares at him, uncomprehending. Because she was freaked out when she was spiraling, sure, but she still _mostly_  thought Oliver and Dig would talk her down. But Oliver thinks she’s _right_? “About the drugging?”

“No!” Oliver and Diggle answer together. Kind of loudly.

Felicity looks back and forth between them, puzzled. Because they couldn’t possibly know nothing nefarious is going on unless they _know what’s going on_. She narrows her eyes at Diggle, but he hooks a thumb in Oliver’s direction so she turns her best intimidating look towards him. “Explain.”

Oliver shifts his weight, and he’s having some trouble holding her gaze. “There’s a reason I started buying you coffee,” he admits, and he actually sounds kind of sheepish? Which is not an look she’s ever really seen on Oliver before. 

And then his words register. Felicity tips her head a little. “Wait, _you_  bought me coffee? Like a lot of coffee?”

Oliver shrugs one shoulder and nods at the same time. “Yeah.”

The admission sends her mind racing full speed into a wall of confusion, and she just stands there and stares at him blankly. “Why?”

“Because I know you like Buzzzzz, and you deserve it.” As if that unusual declaration isn’t enough, Oliver reaches out and touches her shoulders, squeezing gently with the tips of his fingers before letting his hand fall away. “Thank you for all of this,” he says, gesturing at the office around them.

Felicity blinks at him. Because this solution to her little coffee mystery is definitely the _last_  thing she would’ve expected. She threw a coffee-related fit in this very office not even a month ago, and he’s bought her a week’s worth of coffee? “Oliver,” she says, a little overwhelmed by the unexpected thoughtfulness.

Suddenly bashful, he turns away. “It’s no big deal.”

Diggle snorts, drawing Felicity’s attention. 

Oliver sighs irritably. “Diggle,” he warns, “leave it alone.”

“Why don’t you explain to her the parameters of your ‘no big deal’?” Diggle prompts, wholly unfazed by Oliver’s crankiness.

Felicity turns wide eyes back to Oliver. “Wait, this is just a nice thing, right? Like a week of free coffee or something?”

Oliver glares at Diggle. “Thanks." 

“Yeah, how awful of me to spill your deep dark coffee secret,” Diggle retorts, clearly enjoying Oliver’s discomfort. “Plus she’d probably notice when they just _keep giving her_   _free coffee_ every--”

“Dig,” Oliver interrupts.

Felicity really doesn’t understand the strange vibe between Oliver and Dig right now, and normally she’d dig into that, but there is important coffee-related information at stake “Wait,” Felicity says, leaning towards Oliver just a bit, “it’s not just this week?”

“It, uh,” Oliver says, reaching up to scratch his neck. “No, it doesn’t have to be.”

“Right,” she scoffs, “so I just get free coffee every day forever, until I ask you stop?” Felicity laughs at the absurdity, glancing over at Diggle. But Diggle is just sitting there, smirking at her, and she stops laughing abruptly and turns back to Oliver.

Who just gives her another one of those strangely awkward half-nod/half-shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Wait, _really_? You--” She waves an arm around in the air, searching for words-- “opened up a tab for me? For coffee? _Forever_? Is that... even a thing?”

"For a billionaire," Diggle mutters, "sure."

“I know you like that place,” Oliver answers, sounding a bit defensive. “You show up with one of those blue cups every morning and most afternoons. And you’re not getting enough sleep and--” 

“Are you saying I look tired?” she teases.

“No!” Oliver lifts both hands in supplication. “No, just -- you’ve told me you’re not getting enough sleep. _Repeatedly_.”

“That’s true,” Diggle interjects. “You’ve told us that a lot." 

“I am _very_ tired,” she grumbles. “I don’t handle sleep deficits that well. I need to learn how to cat nap. Are either of you nappers?”

“No,” Diggle answers, smirking. “But we’re not five years old, either.”

Felicity sticks her tongue out at Dig.

“Anyway,” Oliver interjects, “you have been burning the candle at both ends, and while cutting back and getting more rest is obviously preferable to drinking all of that coffee, this is just my way of saying thank you for all that you do.”

Felicity feels the sting of tears in her eyes, which is _definitely_  because she’s overtired and over-caffeinated, and not because she didn’t expect such a genuinely thoughtful gesture from her gruff grump of a boss and friend. “Oliver,” she says, drifting closer to him without realizing it. “That’s really very sweet. You really didn’t have to--”

“I know I didn’t _have_  to,” he interrupts, stepping just inside her personal space to smile down at her. It’s one of those soft, affectionate smiles that she’s seen from him only a few times, and it does something unfair to her insides. Then he compounds the fluttering in her chest by reaching up to touch her bicep gently. “I wanted to.”

If Oliver were anyone else, or if their relationship were less confusing, she would lean in and hug him. But they’re still navigating their post- _I-jumped-out-of-a-plane-to-drag-you-home_  friendship, and she honestly doesn’t know if she’d be able to let go if she got her arms around him. So she brings her hand up and grasps his arm just above his elbow. Her hand is tiny in comparison to his bicep, and she rubs gently, trying to convey her thanks and her affection.

Oliver’s breath catches a little at her touch.

Fearing she's crossed some unspoken barrier of his, Felicity drops her hand and steps back. His hand falls away from her shoulder, and she can't quite name the emotion that flits across his face. “Thank you, Oliver. That’s incredibly generous and very thoughtful. And,” she says, waggling her eyebrows playfully, “I will _definitely_ use this opportunity to make you try all the glorious types of espresso-related drinks out there so we can refine your palate.”

Oliver smiles. “I’m looking forward to it.”

They grin stupidly at each other for a moment, until Diggle mutters something incomprehensible and Felicity turns. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Dig answers, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m going to check in with security and leave you two to whatever this is.” 

Flushing slightly, Felicity scoops up her empty Buzzzzz cup and heads for her desk. “I should really get back to work.”

Diggle nods and holds Oliver’s office door open for her, following her out. He heads for the elevator and she settles behind her desk, leaning over to toss the cup in the trash. As she straightens, she glances over at Oliver’s desk and finds him watching her. They exchange small smiles, and when Felicity turns back to her computer, she is still tired and hyped up on caffeine, and she’s still got many more hours to be awake today, but there’s a warm feeling in her chest that makes all of that a bit more bearable.

-30-


	2. Swept Off My Feet (Summer, 2015)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the ratings change, but, you know... 2015 is the summer of sexing across America, so...

 

**Summer, 2015**

 

After four glorious weeks of living on the road with Oliver -- which includes, of course, _tons_  of amazing, enthusiastic, athletic sex -- they have kind of a routine.

Not... like a _sex_  routine -- that part of their life together is still a delightful surprise. Well, okay, not a _surprise_ , like, _wow, I can’t believe we’re having sex again!_  Because, honestly, they have sex a lot. _A lot_. Enough so that it’s more of a surprise when they’re together alone with four walls around them and _don’t_  immediately jump each other. Also, Oliver seems determined to learn every single thing that drives Felicity to orgasm and then practice until he’s able to bring her off flawlessly every.single.time, which is a _delightful_  surprise.

So, yeah. Sex? Fantastically varied and _often_. But not routine.

It’s the other parts of their life together that are becoming routine. Which _sounds_  like it could be kind of dull, but is actually the part of this that makes Felicity feel... _beloved_. Like, Oliver sees her when she’s got a mouthful of toothpaste, no makeup, hair all crazy, and he grins at her with affection. And when she wakes up all weird and cranky, he rolls closer so he can smile into her neck, his stubble scritching along her skin in the _most_  satisfying, shiver-inducing kind of way.

Every thing she thought she knew about Oliver has changed -- or at least grown and shifted. Because they’ve been close for a long time, but, as it turns out, Oliver has been holding himself apart from her. He’s been keeping his smiles rationed, his touches brief, and his conversation mostly free of deeply felt things.

Now, though?  Now, Oliver practically glows with a calm, settled kind of happiness. They’re both feeling that happy daze of a new relationship, but she’s never seen this kind of _lightheartedness_  from him before. Some days just the sight of him pausing to turn his face up to the sun and smile is enough to bring relieved tears to her eyes. He’s finally _living_  in a way he hasn’t been, and it’s beautiful to watch.

This Oliver, the true, deep-down Oliver,  _her_  Oliver is a kind, gentle, tactile revelation.

The first few days, as they drove down the west coast, there had been an air of desperation to his touches -- like he couldn’t quite believe she was really here with him and needed the physical reassurance. Like he worried that this could all crumble away. Like maybe they were some kind of unattainable dream. So he’d kept a hand on her leg in the Porsche, except to shift. He’d ushered her through doorways and down grocery store aisles with fingers pressed lightly to the small of her back. And he’d slung an arm around her shoulders at any opportunity.

These days, the touching is still near-constant -- from her, as well, because she honestly never thought she’d have permission to touch his scared, coiled strength, and now that he’s hers, she’s taking full advantage. So is he, but there’s a confidence to his touch now, a lack of hesitance or fear. Oliver reaches for her hand as they go for walks and hikes, tugging her closer with a playful grin, or assisting her over the uneven parts with his steady strength. He presses kisses to her temple at a whim, and he likes to sit close enough that their thighs touch when possible.

These days, they lean into each other instinctually.

But the biggest surprise of living with Oliver, of really _being_  with Oliver, is how willing he is to share his demons. It’s hard for him to tell her about the island, about Hong Kong, but he makes an effort. He tells her stories about Shado and Yao Fei. He tells her more about Anatoly -- though he mostly still avoids talking about the time he spent in Russia. She can see the tension and shame in his body when he treads close to that time in his life, so she doesn’t push him.

Still, he shares things with her, usually late at night, pressed together skin to skin in the cocoon of their bed. He slides down, resting his stubbly cheek against her chest and confesses some of his fears.

_“I’m not sure I can ever make up for the things I’ve done.”_

_“I was a little shit before the island, but I came out of those years even worse. Not selfish and thoughtless, but cold and vicious and violent.”_

She reassures him when she can, and listens when she can’t. She’s known for years that the damage to Oliver runs far deeper than the physical scars on his body, but she never fully realized how long it will take him to heal.

But she can be patient when the goal is important. And Oliver living a full, healthy life? Preferably always and forever with her? That’s of utmost importance.

So she does what she can to convey her empathy for what he’s gone through and her forgiveness for the way he’d chosen _not_ -her over and over again. Felicity isn’t an expert at this, though, and she worries sometimes that she’s screwing everything up. But Oliver only ever pulls her closer, sinking into her before dropping off to sleep.

One of her favorite parts of their routine is that, on the mornings they don’t have slow, lazy sex under the covers, Oliver kisses her to semi-awakeness and then heads out for a run while she dozes off for more sleep. As much as she loves him, as much as she loves spending most of her time with him, she _also_  loves that they have these separate, independent things to do.

She usually sleeps a little more -- all the sex is great, but also exhausting; Oliver is in _far_  better cardiovascular shape than she is -- and then grumbles her way out of bed. On her good days, she does a few sit-ups, a few push-ups, and if she’s feeling exuberantly energetic, _maybe_  five burpees.

But burpees are the devil’s exercise. So.

Then she takes long, hot showers. She shaves when necessary, uses a loofah on her elbows, shampoos and conditions her hair, and eventually gets out. She has no idea how Oliver times it, but almost invariably when she steps out of the shower, there’s a vanilla latte sitting on the bathroom countertop. Because he loves her and because he knows she is not at her kind, rational best before coffee.

This morning when steps out of the shower at their small spa-like room in a hotel in Sedona, she finds three things sitting in a little row beside the sink:  her latte, a new bottle of her favorite conditioner, and a small bottle of a deep, bright fuchsia nail polish.

A warm rush of affection sweeps through her as she wraps herself in Oliver’s giant bath towel. This kind of small gesture is something that would never have occurred to the brusque, closed off man she met. _Her_  Oliver will cheerfully go out of his way just to make her happy.

“Oliver?” she calls out, leaning her hip against the counter. She takes a sip of her drink, examining the conditioner and nail polish. When he appears in the doorway, he eyes her in his dark green towel, looking half-exasperated, half-considering tugging it off of her. Also, he’s sweaty, shirtless, and wearing low-slung sweatpants, so Felicity temporarily loses her train of thought.

“Yeah?” he prompts, lips quirking in amusement.

With a start, Felicity waggles the nail polish bottle in the air between them. “What’s this?”

He shrugs one shoulder, and she’s distracted by the ripple of his abs -- they look particularly lick-able when he’s all sweaty and post-workout. “I knew you were running low on conditioner, and I saw that color when I was at the pharmacy. I don’t know,” he says, somewhat bashfully, “it reminded me of you.”

That warm feeling in her chest is back because Oliver _browsed nail polish because it reminded him of her_ , and what even is her life right now? Grinning, Felicity takes another sip of her coffee before placing it down and drifting closer to Oliver with loose, swaying steps that announcer her intention. His hands land on her hips and pull her closer even as he chuckles, “I’m all sweaty.”

Felicity loops her arms around his neck and licks his collarbone. “I noticed.” His fingers tighten on her as she leans closer, arching up because he’s _really_  tall and big. She can feel the knot holding her towel in place start to loosen.

Oliver slides one hand down over her ass, pausing to squeeze gently, before continuing until his warm palm lands on her thigh. “Felicity,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her neck. His warm breath makes her shiver. “Did you notice the name?

The name? Felicity has no earthly idea what he’s talking about, because he’s sucking on that sensitive spot where her shoulder meets her neck, and his fingers are curling around the back of her thigh, inching closer to where she wants to feel him, and _what are words_?

She scratches her fingernails lightly down his spine, letting her hand dip into his sweatpants to grab his delicious ass and urge him closer.

“Felicity,” he laughs into her neck, even as he presses his erection against her belly, the hand flat on her lower back tugging her flush against him. “The nail polish. Do you like it?”

Nail polish. Sure. Okay. “Yeah,” she manages as his dark green towel gives up, slithering down her body until it’s trapped between them where they’re pressed together, leaving her back bare and her breasts barely covered.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, shifting to cup her ass with both hands, lifting and squeezing and _teasing_.

And whatever he’d been trying to say is forgotten in the rush. Oliver shifts, the towel falls away, and he lifts her, turning to deposit her on the marble countertop. Felicity squeaks at the cool surface against her hot skin, but then Oliver is shoving his sweatpants down and tugging her thighs up and open, and they’re kissing -- dirty, wet, nipping kisses -- as he positions himself and slides home.

She leans one hand against the countertop behind her, wrapping her legs around him as he pulls her hips even closer to the edge. She loops her free arm around his neck and tugs him down to her. He comes eagerly, bending over her with one palm landing hard on the countertop. His free hand holds her thigh against his ribs, hips pistoning in and out, kissing her with a ferocity that pushes her higher and higher.

“Love you,” she pants, nipping at his lower lip in that way that he loves, that makes him jerk against her and groan.

“Felicity,” he moans, sliding his hand over her stomach and down, until his thumb lands on her clit. “Love you,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to her shoulder, moving restlessly, recklessly inside of her.

She doesn’t feel the hard counter beneath her, or the strain in her arm from propping herself up. All she feels is Oliver, warm and heavy. He’s above her, leaning on her, inside of her, and he hits her just right and she comes, arching against him, dropping her head back. Oliver sucks on her nipple and keeps circling her clit until she starts laugh a little breathlessly as she starts to come down. Then his hand shifts to her hip, bracing her in place for another few desperate thrusts until he comes inside her with a rush of heat.

“Oliver,” she moans as he leans even harder on her in the aftermath. She has to release the death grip she has on his shoulder to lean back on her elbows, hitting her head lightly on the mirror behind her. “Ow,” she laughs, shifting a little.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough and grumbly and post-orgasmic enough to make her body throb. He hisses, lifting himself up. “C’mere,” he says, pulling her upright. She wraps her arms around his ribcage and her legs around his hips, leaning her cheek against his chest. She closes her eyes and listens to his pounding heartbeat. His big palm rubs the back of her head gently.

“I’m okay,” she tells him. She lets her head drop back, grinning up at him. “I’m hard-headed.”

Oliver leans down and kisses her. “So I’ve noticed,” he answers, kissing her before she can push him away in a huff.

Not that she really wants him to go anywhere. Like, _ever_ , basically. She tightens her grip on him and kisses him back.

Eventually, he pulls back, running his hands up and down her back. “I need to shower. Care to join me?”

“I _just_  showered,” she points out.

Oliver glances down their bodies and quirks an eyebrow at her. “C’mon,” he urges.

It’s not like she needs much convincing to spend more time in close quarters with naked Oliver, so she lets him help her off the counter and usher her into the steamy shower stall. He brings her off with his fingers, and then she makes him come with her mouth and her hands. And _then_  she leaves him to finish his shower in peace.

They go about the rest of their morning as usual -- a leisurely walk to a nearby diner for a late breakfast (with more coffee), and a conversation-slash-argument about what to do that afternoon. It’s not until they return from their hike that evening that Felicity picks up the nail polish bottle, remembering that he’d asked whether she liked it

Out of idle curiosity, she flips the bottle over to read the name.

Swept Off My Feet.

 _Did you notice the name?_  he’d asked earlier.

With a slightly watery grin, Felicity puts the bottle down, marches out into the living room, and straddles a surprised but enthusiastic Oliver. “Swept off my feet?” she asks him.

He hooks his arm around her back and tugs her in. “You absolutely did,” he tells her.

She can't quite find the words to answer him; instead, she leans in and kisses him, slow and sweet.

-30-


	3. A Form of Therapy (Fall, 2016)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE** : This is my attempt to deal with Felicity's many physical and emotional wounds from S4 more realistically than the show did, while remaining compliant with canon. Consequently, **this chapter deals with chronic pain, mental health issues, and some unhealthy coping mechanisms**. If these issues are triggering for you, please proceed cautiously or feel absolutely free to skip this chapter. 
> 
> **TIMEFRAME** : This chapter is set during the beginning of S5; if you hate the canon for this timeframe, you may not enjoy this. Please feel free to skip.
> 
> **THANKS** : Huge thanks to positivethinkingforlosers for reviewing this chapter for details I was getting right or wrong on areas outside of my experiences; any mistakes are mine alone.

 

**Fall 2016**

 

Her back doesn’t hurt any more or less than it has since Curtis’s chip was implanted -- it’s still the same constant low ache with occasional twinges of sharp, warning kinds of pain. 

Felicity tries to just adjust to this new baseline of pain because she knows just what she’s regained due to Curtis’s incredible gift. But it turns out that even low-level constant pain is _exhausting_. That’s not a thing she’d ever considered before her injury, when she’d been thoughtlessly able-bodied. Sure, things hurt sometimes -- muscle twinges or minor sprains or stress headaches -- but you just pop some Advil and you’re good as new by the next day! Right? Well, as it turns out, not so much. 

It’s safe to say that Felicity’s paralysis and the chip-induced recovery has been world-changing in more ways than one.

Still, she’s learned to live with the dull, bone-deep aches, with the way her shoulders grow tense when she tries to guard against pain, with cascading soreness all up and down her back. None of it is as bad as those first, excruciating days when her nerves flared into connection with her brain and registered _strong complaints_  about the whole thing, so she rarely lets herself complain about this.

She’s walking, she’s mostly recovered, and she’s stubborn enough to handle the pain most days. She maybe even _deserves_  the pain, considering all the deaths she’s responsible for -- on her bad days, Felicity doesn’t think she deserved to live through the ghosts’ brutal attack last December, and imagines the physical pain of her injuries is justly applied punishment. 

Logically, she knows her mental health is exceedingly out of whack, and that injuries and disabilities aren’t _punishment_  for anything. But sometimes the physical pain is just easier to take than her massive, crushing guilt over her part in the nuclear destruction of Havenrock.

On days like that, she retreats to the loft and spends hours in bed with the new, light-blocking shades drawn across the oversized windows. Lying around all day never _truly_  eases the ache in her body; not even curling up in the bed with her body pillow does much. But on bad days, she simply can’t find it in herself to interact with anyone. She begs off the charity work she’s doing, and texts Oliver that she’s sick, and if she and Billy have plans, she calls him to cancel. Of the two men in her life, it’s Billy who’s more accepting of her nights off, agreeing graciously to reschedule. Not that Oliver really pushes her or argues, but he _definitely_  notices. On days after her bad days, he spends all the hours they’re together in the lair  _watching_  her. It’s infuriating.

Because she doesn’t need him or his overprotectiveness. She’s trying _very_  hard to convince herself of that. She can do things on her own.

She’s dating Billy, sure, and some nights he at least makes her forget the world of _suck_  that is her life. He’s an escape from the darkness she feels in the lair, and at home. But she hasn’t let him become _necessary_. She doesn’t let him in, not the way she’d let Oliver so close to her heart. She’s not sure she can ever really do that again. Maybe she’s finally learned a lifetime of lessons about herself, and her level of importance to other people.

And maybe she deserves _that_ , too, that kind of emotional abandonment. Maybe the woman who has tens of thousands of deaths on her soul shouldn’t expect anyone to love her unconditionally.

None of the guilt and self-blame affects her need to help, to _atone_ , so she spends hours at the women’s shelter, helping to beef up the security -- both online to protect the identities and locations of women and children in hiding, and for the shelter’s physical and administrative practices. Turns out, she’s learned a lot about safety strategies and how to hide an important location in plain sight while working with Oliver and Diggle. And because Felicity also believes in being prepared for any situation, she persuaded a dojo owner in the Glades to provide free self-defense classes for the women and, heartbreakingly, the older children at the shelter -- just in case the safeguards fail.

She’d even joined in one of the classes to help encourage participation, but she’d landed strangely on her back and -- well, Paul had been pretty pissed when he found out about it. Those damn bullets caused damage, and it’s been almost ten months, but she’s _still_  healing from it. Paul says she’ll continue to improve, that the therapy and exercises will help her to manage her pain and her limitations. 

But that’s the thing -- Felicity has never done well with limitations.

Heels, for example, are a _terrible_  idea, according to Paul. They alter her stride, causing her to swing her hips more than if she weren’t wearing them, and they shift the alignment of her entire body. The heels-induced arch in her spine puts different stresses and requirements on her entire frame. Felicity understands the physiological argument, of course, but... well... the arch and the swingy hips are at least half the reason for wearing heels.

Also, the additional height and the sexy, resounding click as she walks give her a sense of indestructibility, of increased _presence_. It’s something she needs these days, some strange kind of armor protecting her aching pieces as she learns to live with her new normal -- her broken-hearted, single life, without even Diggle around to talk to. 

Well, single except for whatever Billy is to her, which is a question she doesn’t let herself examine too closely.

So Felicity’s ignores Paul’s continued lectures and occasional sighs, and every night when she reaches the loft, she groans and steps out of her heels, leaving them haphazardly lying near the door. And she can _feel_  her spine shift as she moves toward the couch. Usually, she collapses on the couch for a few minutes to rest, before changing into PJs and running through a few vinyasas, nice and slow.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Make it through the days she can handle, and retreat to solitude to suffer through the days she can’t. It’s not the life she’d imagined for herself that December night at the tree lighting, but it’s what she has.

On the morning after her latest dark day, Felicity wakes late. It’s Sunday, and she’s supposed to be at the shelter to teach computer science to the kids -- one of them, a beautiful little girl with a broad smile named Latisha, has taken to it _so well_  that Felicity has offered to mentor her one on one. She’s never been able to resist bright, eager girls with a penchant for STEM.

It’s her promise to Latisha more than anything else that gets Felicity out of bed. She stands in the shower for too long, eyes closed, warm water pleasantly beating down on her shoulders, before making herself get ready for the day.

She’s bundled up in her favorite coat, wearing a cute red dress and black Mary Janes when she steps out of her apartment. She nearly misses the envelope taped to her front door. 

Startled, she goes stock still, and feels a flush of instinctual panic. Her attention telescopes to this one ivory-colored envelope, to the exclusion of the rest of the world. 

Is this a threat? 

Is someone showing her he can get to her whenever he wants? (It’s almost _always_  a he.) 

Her heart pounds a panicky rhythm as she stands frozen in the hallway. It occurs to her eventually that she’s been standing there hyperventilating for a disturbingly long time. She takes a gasping breath, and fights the conflicting urges to flee, to call Oliver, to shout for help, to tear the envelope free of her door and rip it to pieces. 

She reaches a shaking hand out to the envelope, pulling it from the door with a small, dull noise as the tape comes loose. It’s light in her grasp, and she doesn’t feel any odd lumps or outlines that would suggest it’s anything other than folded up paper or a card inside the envelope.

Thought it could certainly include anthrax or some other awful airborne toxin. Crap, what if it’s an _airborne pathogen_? Small pox would kill _so many people_  if it were introduced, because no one’s vaccinated for it anymore. She stares down at the envelope and tries to remember if she’d ever read about whether small pox could survive in a paper/air environment.

It’s not until she gently turns the envelope over and sees her name in Oliver’s familiar writing that her panic eases. Her breath comes out of her in a woosh, and she sags against the wall. And, wow, had she really fallen _so far down_ into paranoia that her first thought when she sees an envelope on her door that it’s poison or a threat?

She presses a hand to her chest, feeling the chaotic thump of her heart, and takes a few long, steady breaths to calm down. Then she frowns curiously at the envelope.

“What is this?” she mutters, struggling to open it, because her fingers are cold and tingling and numb. The card inside is a muted lavender, with the words _Bayside Spa_  on the front. “Weird card,” she notes. 

Frowning, she opens it and finds that it’s _not_  a greeting card, but something closer to an invitation, or maybe a very fancy gift card. The stylized script reads:

_ You are cordially invited to enjoy a therapeutic massage, tailored to clients with chronic pain, spinal injuries, and related issues. This ninety-minute massage has been provided to you as a gift, and tentatively scheduled for today, at 3:30 p.m. _

“What?” she breathes, hit with a flood of emotion so strong she can’t quite identify it all -- relief, shock, a stubborn kind of _love_  for this man, despite what they no longer are to each other. 

She debates whether to accept this gift or refuse with thanks for his thoughtfulness. But she knows he’ll take that kind of rejection hard. And she doesn’t _want_  to reject this, if she’s being honest. The idea that Oliver had gone to the trouble to think about what she might like (or need) and deliver it to her door semi-anonymously (he didn’t sign the card, but must have known she’d recognize his handwriting) -- it makes something warm and soothing bloom in her chest.

Also, she hasn’t had a massage in at least a year -- not since Ivy Town. Her life in Star City is hectic, and she’s spent ten months fighting with her body, and submitting to tests and physical therapy. It hasn’t even occurred to her to do something... _nice_  and nurturing for her body.

She pulls out her cell and scrolls to Oliver’s contact. Briefly, she considers calling him, but that is too daunting. She _knows_  whatever she tried to say to him would get away from her, and she’d likely reveal more than she wants to. So she flips to texts instead and sends him a brief, heartfelt thank you. Then she tucks the envelope away in her purse and locks her door.

Oliver responds before she reaches the elevator:   _You’re welcome. I hope I didn’t overstep_.

She almost laughs at that -- of course he did, but in a surprisingly thoughtful way. It takes her a while to figure out how to answer him. She sits in her car in the underground garage for a solid five minutes trying to strike the right balance before she types, _I appreciate it. Truly_.

Her hours at the shelter goes by quickly; the highlight is sharing ice cream and giggles with Latisha. 

When Felicity reaches the Bayside Spa, she is ushered into a large, warm space with soft classical music playing and a light, fresh aromatic candle burning. The massage therapist introduces himself, and asks surprisingly careful questions about her pain levels, problem spots, and anything she’d like him to know before they begin.

By the time she’s lying on the table, naked under the soft sheet, she’s feeling incredibly tense. What if it hurts? What if it makes things worse? What is she _doing_  here?

But Rodrigo’s first confident, soothing touches to her shoulders sets her mind at ease. He works gently but firmly, teasing the knots in her muscles. There’s something about being here, about the the quiet and the way her mind is so focused on the work being done to her body that gets past all of her defenses. The pain in her heart and the pain in her body merge, and as he continues to work, Felicity starts to cry.

Rodrigo doesn’t seem concerned, he simply nudges the kleenex closer so that she can reach. Felicity swipes at her eyes and blows her nose, but the tears don’t stop. 

It’s uncontrollable. It’s some form of release. It’s getting just a little bit of that poison out of her system.

She cries off and on for the rest of her massage, and when Rodrigo pulls the sheet back up and pats her shoulder gently, he pauses to say, “There’s water right here. Please drink some.”

Stuffy-nosed and headache-y and puffy-eyed, Felicity manages an, “Okay.”

When she’s alone, she sits up wrapping the sheet around her chest, and reaches for the water. She drinks half the bottle in one go, and then blows her nose again. Her body feels looser and more relaxed than she can remember it being in so long, and the pain along her spine is about as manageable as it’s been since the shooting. 

She dresses quickly, her movements a bit clumsier than usual, and puts her sunglasses on before she leaves the treatment room.

And when Felicity walks out of the Bayside Spa, she feels tired and fragile and dehydrated, but somehow just a little bit better.

-30-


	4. Micha 100 Fuchsia Patent and Suede Round Toe Pumps (Winter, 2018)

 

**Winter, 2018**

 

 

Felicity is in fine form by 4 p.m. on Wednesday -- aka, her last scheduled hour of work before going on leave for her wedding and honeymoon. Despite her assistant Elijah’s best efforts to wind her down and usher her out the door, she is, instead, wound _up_. Like, _incessant pacing_ -level anxious.

And maybe, possibly, just kind of obsessing over evil shoes also.

“Felicity,” Elijah says, arms crossed over his chest, one dark eyebrow raised in exasperation as she paces past where he’s leaning against her desk, “can we just--?”

“Nope!” She evades Elijah’s grasp and loops around behind the couch, talking a hundred miles an hour the entire time about the amazing pair of bright pink Jimmy Choos sitting on her desk. _Taunting_  her. Only problem being-- “They’re _evil_ ,” she repeats, straying a bit closer to the desk (or, really, the shoes, because, yeah, they’re totally evil, but they’re _gorrrrrgous_ ). It’s possible she whimpers a bit with shoe-lust before turning away with a very loud, “No!” 

“I told you,” Elijah says in that endlessly patient tone of his, “I will handle this.” 

“I know,” she answers, feeling a _little_  bit guilty, because her poor assistant is just trying to get her out the door. Because, yes, okay, today is her last day at work before her _wedding_ , which is... _wow_. And, yes, fine, _maybe_  this will also be the first significant amount of time she’ll be taking off since the official rebranding of Smoak Technologies, and while she’s happy to delegate as the CEO, she’s very aware that she’s the decision-maker, and being away for nearly a month is daunting.

And also? She’s _getting married_  in three days.

Which is awesome and she’s so happy and she can’t wait to be married to him. Honestly. It’s just... it’s _also_  huge. Like... _huge_. 

And she doesn’t even mean the guest list or the press coverage. Which are also overwhelming in their own right.

She just means -- It’s her and Oliver. 

_Finally_. 

And when she lets herself think of the dress hanging in her closet, or the fact that Oliver is _right now_  picking up their wedding rings at the jewelers, or really any of it, she gets all grin-y and sappy and so distracted that there’s just _no way_  she’ll make it safely through the next three days. ( _Three days_!) “Holy crap,” she mutters to herself.

“Do you?” Elijah challenges, crossing his arms and giving her that _look_  of his. And... Felicity honestly has no idea what he’s talking about? “I am not feeling the trust right now, Felicity.”

Oh! Right. Work stuff. She can’t finish her work stuff and hand it off to him to handle, because she’s can’t _focus_  because her mind is a whirling, swirling mess. And also because the stupid, evil shoes!

“Of course I trust you!” she tells Elijah. She doesn’t break stride, though, her thoughts cycling endlessly through her boundless excitement to be married to Oliver _finally_ ; her concern about leaving Smoak Technologies on its own for so long; and her totally normal and reasonable suspicions that she has some kind of _shoe_  stalker. “I don’t trust _those_.” She moves to stand very close to the _gorgeous_ but totally evil heels.

The bright pink, modern Mary Janes with a five inch heel. The shoes that are _so_  her they should be called _Felicity_ , not Micha. The heels that are just. _so. cute_.

But, you know, _evil_. 

Dammit.

“I will handle the shoes,” Elijah says, “and those last few contracts you signed, and _everything else_  while you’re gone, including--”

“Right, but you’ll call me if you need me?” she demands. 

Elijah rolls his eyes, but somehow politely? He’s freakishly talented. “I won’t need you.”

She huffs and turns away, her gaze catching on those stupid shoes again. “You’ll call me when--?” 

“You will _not_  call her,” interrupts the amused voice of her fiance.

Felicity whirls around. “Oliver!”

“Felicity,” he answers, smiling at her, all soft and affectionate. He’s standing in the doorway wearing her favorite jeans and that maroon sweater that _does things_  to her. Sometimes, when he looks at her like this, she thinks she really, truly understands why women in old movies and books used to swoon all the time. Oliver’s happy smile is definitely swoon-worthy. 

“Good, you’re here,” Elijah says, pushing away from her desk and heading for the door. “ _You_  deal with her.” He pauses beside Oliver and lowers his voice a bit. “She’s spiraling.”

“I am _not_  spiraling!” Felicity half-yells at Elijah’s back.

He simply waves her off with a dismissive, “I’ve got the contracts. You need to leave.”

She huffs irritably, and turns her gaze to her soon-to-be husband, who is openly grinning and heading straight for her. “I’m _not_  spiraling,” she insists, marching toward him. “This is a _perfectly_  normal reaction, Oliver,” she explains, meeting him in the middle of the office and pausing just long enough to kiss him hello. And then pauses a bit longer, because Oliver likes to linger, and the man can do excellent, excellent things with that mouth of his. “Because,” she continues eventually, “I have had a stalker before, and I am _not_  craving a repeat performance!”

All of Oliver’s relaxed amusement is replaced with an instantaneous stiff-bodied alert. He’s in Green Arrow mode, his gaze sweeping the office for threats, and his hold on her is practical for self-defense instead of handsy and suggestive. “What?” he demands, his voice low and anxious. “Stalker? What happened?”

“There’s no _note_ ,” she explains, waving a hand toward the fuchsia Jimmy Choos sitting on her desk. “And who sends a woman shoes without having, you know, _designs_  on her?” The reminder dials her nervous energy back up, and she breaks away from Oliver to pace a little bit more. “It’s the only logical conclusion.”

“Shoes?” Oliver echoes, following her gaze to the beautiful shoes. God, she really loves those shoes. Why couldn’t they be _not_ evil so she could wear them?

“It’s okay,” she tells him, pausing in her pacing to pat his chest. “I’ve got it all under control.” She moves off again, circling towards the window before looping back towards her fiance. “There’s no return address. I already hacked the delivery service and they were shipped direct from the manufacturer, so no luck there. I need to hack the Jimmy Choo site to find out who bought them, but Elijah then had all these papers for me to sign before I left and I got distracted, but--”

“Felicity,” Oliver interjects, gently catching her as she tries to zoom past him and drop into her chair to just hack Jimmy Choo really quickly.

“You know what’s creepiest, though?” she continues, shifting in his grip to look up at him, and _why_  doesn’t he look upset anymore? “I really _like_  those shoes! I mean, I spent at _least_  twenty minutes on the Jimmy Choo site last weekend, but I couldn’t justify the price, and now I feel all icky!”

“Why do you feel icky?” Oliver asks. “Maybe these shoes--”

“Because _stalker_!” she retorts, leaning back to stare up at him in confusion. “As my almost-husband, shouldn’t you be all broody and grumbly and stomping around threatening to crack some skulls?”

Whatever reaction she expects, it’s not what she gets -- Oliver beams down at her. “Almost-husband,” he whispers, and then he’s kissing her. Like, _really_  kissing her. He’s got her up on her toes, pressed flushed against him, and he cradles her head and deepens the kiss. He’s kissing her like her assistant isn’t fifty feet and a totally see--through glass wall away.

When he pulls away breathless, Felicity smiles up at him before opening her eyes slowly. “Mmmm, that was nice.”

“I love you in Mary Janes,” he murmurs.

And just like that, Felicity remembers the gorgeous-but-evil stalker shoes. “Right,” she says, trying to extricate herself from his grasp. “I need to hack--”

“No, Felicity,” Oliver says, running a hand up and down her spine, “you’re not hearing me. I love you in Mary Janes.” He’s watching her like he’s just explained everything, but he really, _really_ hasn’t.

Then she remembers the black and silver Mary Janes that he’s asked her to leave on more than once before, and suddenly his non-sequitur makes sense. “No way!” She pushes against his chest, wrinkling her nose up at him. “We are _not_  having fun sexytimes with those stalker shoes!”

“Felicity--”

“Not only did somebody send me _shoes_  -- and _sexy_  shoes at that -- this guy sent me shoes that I have _considered buying before_.” She shakes her head at how much he is _not getting this_. “Stalker, Oliver! Someone must’ve managed to hack my browser history, and you _know_  I have my own safeguards in place, so that is _really_  upsetting. But,” she continues, talking over him, “I _will_  find him -- you know it’s a him, it’s _always_  a him -- and I will make him pay!”

Oliver is still grinning down at her, like this situation is amusing instead of skeevy and more than a little scary.

She glares at him. “What is wrong with you?”

“You’re really cute when you’re bloodthirsty,” he teases, leaning in to kiss her.

“Bloodthirsty!” she squeaks, turning her face away. Oliver presses kisses to the sensitive spots on her neck instead, chuckling against her skin. “I am not bloodthirsty,” she protests. “ _Hack_ thirsty, maybe.” She pauses, wrinkling her nose as she considers it. “Nope, that’s not actually a thing. But why aren’t _you_  bloodthirsty?” she demands, squirming until he straightens up. “Why are you _okay_  with this?”

“I would never be okay with you having a stalker,” he promises. “And I never want you to feel freaked out about anything, but--”

“Then why aren’t you--” She drops her voice to a harsh whisper-- “ _putting an arrow in something_?”

“Felicity, hon, I bought you the shoes.” 

She blinks. “What?” 

Oliver presses a kiss to her lips. “Yup,” he says, sounding quite pleased with himself. 

“You...” She glances over at the shoes, then back up at his smug, smirky face. “You bought me those amazing shoes?” she half-yells in her relief and excitement.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Because I saw you fawning over them, and, as I mentioned, I really love you in Mary Janes.”

Felicity loops her arm around his neck to tug him down so she can kiss him properly. It gets heated quickly, the way it usually does with them, and then Oliver is backing her up against her desk, his arms wrapped snugly around her waist. Felicity’s got one hand on his neck and the other under his shirt pressed against the warm skin of his back when she hears a pointed throat clearing.

Elijah. The office. Right. Oops. “You could always _go home_ and do that,” Elijah suggests dryly. 

Felicity laughs and ducks her forehead into Oliver’s shoulder for a moment. “Sorry!” she says, tiling her head to glance around Oliver. Elijah is standing by the door holding her coat out pointedly. “My stalker is Oliver!” she tells him with a cheerful grin.

“I like it better when you call me your almost-husband,” Oliver murmurs, letting his hand drift lower to cup her ass.

“Go home!” Elijah repeats. “Take your stalker shoes and your coat and this man who wants to marry you, and _get_.”

“I do want to marry you,” Oliver agrees, leaning in and press a soft kiss beside her ear. “Grab those shoes and let’s go home.”

She beams up at him. “And you _also_  want sexytimes with these shoes.”

Oliver nods eagerly. “We only have two more nights together before spending a whole day apart.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “First of all, it’s one night, not a whole day. And secondly, we’ll see each other at the chuppah, and then we'll be _married_.”

“I can’t wait,” Oliver tells her, before reluctantly loosening his hold on her. “Now go get your coat on. I’ve got the shoes.”

Felicity claps her hands together -- because _sexy shoes!_ \-- and then moves to Elijah. He helps her on with her coat, then pulls her into a quick but enthusiastic hug. “I’m so happy for you. Congratulations.”

Felicity grins at him. “Thank you!” She lowers her voice. “And, seriously, you can totally call me if--”

“The building is _actually_  on fire,” Oliver interjects, appearing at their side. “Otherwise, we trust you to handle it, Elijah.” He accepts Elijah’s congratulatory handshake, then ushers Felicity towards the elevator. “So you like the shoes?”

Felicity leans into him as they walk. “I’ll thank you properly when we get home. _With_ the shoes on.”

Elijah makes a loud, strangled noise of distress behind them. 

Flushing with happiness and maybe a little bit of embarrassment, Felicity glances over her shoulder. “Sorry, Elijah!” She lowers her voice and bumps Oliver affectionately. “Seriously, though. I _love_  the shoes. Thank you, almost husband.”

Oliver slings an arm around her waist as they step onto the elevator. “You’re welcome, almost wife.”

-30-

 


	5. Partner in Crime - Summer, 2020

 

**Summer, 2020**

  


Felicity is nearing the end of her metaphorical rope by the time Oliver and Diggle bother to show themselves in her office at Smoak Tech.

Elijah has taken himself off somewhere safe, telling her he’s not up for yet another Queen family argument today. Not that she’s _planning_  on arguing with Oliver or anything, but she can’t deny that she’s in a pretty bad mood. Their important Q3 project is behind schedule, her best QA engineer is out for at least a week with a wrenched back, and her entire swollen body is protesting today.

She had a _plan_ ; she had a list of all the Smoak Tech initiatives and where they needed to be before her maternity leave, and it feels more and more like she’ll be leaving the company in a lurch instead. It’s not doing her mood any favors, and these days, when she gets angry, she cries.

Elijah narrowly avoided her _actively killing_  him by not making any cracks about her hormones -- she has historically appreciated his particular brand of humor, and the way he keeps her a little more grounded, but these days? Felicity is entirely _fed up_ with all those super funny jokes about pregnant women being irrational and demanding and cranky.

Actually, at 37 and a half weeks, Felicity is entirely fed up with just about everything, but those jokes completely ignore how exhausting it is to _grow another human_. Her body is currently doing things way more impressive than Oliver’s during even his most extreme workout routine -- and she has seen and experienced that man do some mind-bendingly good things with that body of his, so it’s not a claim she makes lightly. But she is _creating life_ , and she’s just will not tolerate people mocking her for the fact that, these days, she cries a little bit every time she gets frustrated.

Her frustration, she feels, is well-earned:  she can’t wear her favorite heels, or really any heels at all anymore; she is hungry all the time, but also has annoying, near-constant heartburn; and apparently _pregnancy-related carpal tunnel_  is a thing.

Yeah.

The constant, vicious pain in her wrists, the ache radiating up the length of her arms, and the truly terrifying tingling and numbness in her fingers the last six weeks? That’s not only what hell feels like for a computer geek -- it’s also pregnancy-related carpal tunnel.

 _That_  particular diagnosis left her sobbing in the doctor’s office less than a month ago, and has been the inciting incident for at least half of the arguments she and Oliver have had since. Because the doctor had suggested she leave work and start her maternity leave, and offered to provide the supporting documentation for the company. Felicity had refused.

Loudly.

Yes, Felicity loves and adores her baby, and of course she can’t _wait_  to meet her daughter. But she has built Smoak Technologies from from the ground up into something actually _successful_ , and she is wholly responsible for it. Creating a company isn’t the same as creating life, obviously, but she’s still pretty damn proud of her achievements. And keeping Smoak Tech headed in the right direction means she needs to leave it in the best possible place before she steps away for maternity leave. How can she just stop working when she has about two and a half pre-baby weeks left? That’s a lot of work-time she can get in before she is a sleep-deprived, breast-feeding zombie for the balance of her maternity leave.

Oliver has been less impressed with that rationale, but he is an exceedingly patient man who understands the way she reacts to things.

Because it’s at least a _little_  possible that she reacted so badly to the carpal tunnel diagnosis because pregnancy was bad enough when she thought stretch marks and the possibility of her feet going up a half-size and rendering her beloved shoe collection obsolete were the worst things she would face.

Carpal tunnel is debilitating for her -- what if it doesn’t _go away_  after delivery?

She is a computer geek and she lives and dies with her ability to type. Her team quite _literally_  lives and dies with her ability to hack, which is directly related to her ability to type, because speech recognition algorithms are not as advanced as they need to be for her to be able to hack effectively or at the speed required to keep up with street-fighting vigilantes.

These days, her wrists ache _so_  badly if she types for more than a few minutes at a stretch that she has to mute her comms so Oliver doesn’t hear her crying in the lair and abandon whatever takedown the team is working. He tried buying her state of the art speech recognition programs, but even with her upgrades, they’re just not good enough or fast enough for her to trust them with Oliver’s life. So she pushes through, and then she ices her wrists with the reusable packs she’d originally bought for her injury-prone, vigilante of a husband. And when he rushes back and sees that her eyes are all red and her nose is stuffy, he _knows_ she’s been crying, and he knows why, and they fight some more.

It’s made her pregnancy even more exhausting these past few weeks, arguing with her favorite person in the world (non-daughter edition), even though they make up quickly. Because she knows herself well enough to know her faults -- she wants to be useful and valued and part of the team that’s become her family; she logically understands she is overreacting. And no matter how angry she gets in the moment, she knows Oliver simply wants what’s best for her.

Even now, when Oliver and Diggle show up at 3 p.m. to pick her up from work, she chafes a little. But she tries not to react because the compromise they’ve come up with is that Felicity works partial days -- not _half_  days, more like three-quarter days -- and then naps for a while before a nice home-cooked dinner. Only then does she go to the lair. And all the while, she wears these stupid wrist braces that don’t seem to actually help, but definitely make doing stuff more difficult than it needs to be.

So when Oliver strides through her door, with Diggle a half-step behind, she just sighs and says, “Just give me two minutes.”

“Felicity,” Oliver says, rounding her desk and turning her chair towards him enough to lean down and kiss her. A little lingeringly, if she’s being honest. When he straightens back up, he’s got those pleading puppy dog eyes operating at full strength. “Elijah’s got this, okay?”

She may grumble a little, and she may pointedly finish typing up the email she’s working on, but she _mostly_  acquiesces. “Fine,” she says, a little petulantly. Then she lets Oliver help her to her feet and steps into his arms for a hug. She really is tired, and she lets herself feel it for a moment, leaning into him and letting her eyes slip shut.

Oliver wraps her up tight in his strength and comforting scent, pressing a kiss to her hair. “How’s your energy level, hon?” he murmurs.

She hums a non-committal noise. “Decent,” she decides. “Probably only need an hour nap.”

“Okay,” he agrees, rubbing his big, warm hand up and down her back, putting supportive pressure along her spine, right where it still aches from her injury, even all these years later. The pressure makes her sigh with pleasure. “Dig’s driving,” he tells her. “We’re gonna stop somewhere first.”

She wrinkles her nose a bit, distressed at the thought of spending too much time in the sticky, warm summer air. “Okay,” she agrees, leaning back and then stepping out of his embrace, moving to Diggle’s side. He seems taller than normal, because she’s in flats. But she grins up at him and gives him a quick hug. “Hi, John.”

“Hi,” he answers, and she can tell he’s grinning. Diggle has been so happy for them since they confirmed his suspicions that she was pregnant, and he’s been _far_  too amused at the changes her pregnancy has wrought in Oliver. Dig grins openly every time Oliver Queen, former playboy and current hard-ass vigilante, rushes to her side trying to anticipate her every need, his gaze open and sappy and at least a little smug when he looks at her rounded belly.

In fact, before the carpal tunnel mess, Felicity and Diggle had quite enjoyed Oliver Queen, Giddy Expectant Dad. She feels a little bad that she’s lost the simple appreciation and amusement the last few weeks. So she squeezes Diggle’s solid frame a little tighter in a silent apology before releasing him.

“Okay,” Felicity says, turning back to Oliver. “Let’s go.”

They make their way down to the parking garage, Oliver holding Felicity’s bag and her hand. She’s not paying much attention as they drive; Oliver rubs her forearms. “How are your wrists feeling?”

She grimaces. “Not great.” They’re painful and stiff and the firm ridges of the braces are compressing her skin. But they ache slightly less when they’re held in an unforgivingly _un-bent_  position, so she deals with the minor pain and hindrance of the braces for the degree of relief they provide.

Oliver nods, carefully undoing the left brace and easing it off. He makes a sad sound when he sees the angry red marks on her skin, rubbing his thumb in soft, soothing circles. “Think you can handle a mani-pedi if they use ice packs to rest your wrists?”

Surprised, Felicity whips her gaze to him. “What?”

Felicity is a nail polish aficionado; she owns hundreds of bottles, and she hardly ever gets manicures or pedicures. In fact, she has a very precise, efficient routine to do her own nails at a whim. Except the carpal tunnel has made that pretty difficult the past couple months. Oliver has stepped in, and he’s not _bad_ at painting her fingernails and toenails, but despite his excellent fine motor skills and his determination to do whatever she needs, he struggles to apply the color evenly and without getting it on her skin. Felicity appreciates the effort, and shows him how much on the days she has the energy for sex.

Oliver’s watching her closely, a small smile on his lips, even as he continues the gentle massage on her left wrist; the more painful wrist, which he knows. “Thought you could use a professional,” he says, “and a bit of pampering.”

“Oliver,” she manages, “I don’t need--”

“I know you don’t _need_  it,” he tells her. “But do you really want to deliver Josephine with chipped toenail polish?”

The thought is vaguely horrifying, and also-- “Is my toenail polish chipped?” Because she has some trouble seeing past her giant belly. Then she frowns. “And the doctors and nurses better have their attention focused elsewhere while I’m in labor!”

Oliver grins and leans in, kissing her quickly. “I love you. And, yes, your toenail polish is a little chipped, but we’re going to fix it right now.” Gently, he places her left wrist in her lap and reaches across her for her right wrist, unclasping the brace and easing it off. “The manicurist is aware of the carpal tunnel; she said she had it when she was pregnant with her second son.”

And as much as Felicity hates that she’s been crying when she’s frustrated, she really can’t _stand_  the way her throat constricts and her eyes well up at Oliver's explanation. Because it makes him panic and start to doubt his incredibly kind instincts.

“Oh, hon, you don’t have to do this,” he says in a worried rush. “I know you prefer to do your own nails, and we both know my efforts are subpar, and I just thought it might be nice--”

“It is,” she interrupts, though the words are so garbled and tear-soaked it’s clear by Oliver’s furrowed brow that he didn’t understand them. So she launches herself across the short distance between their bodies, curling her arms around his neck and pressing teary kisses to his throat. Her giant belly is wedged against his side, and she can’t get as close as she wants to, but when he relaxes against her, she knows he understands the underlying emotion.

Oliver cups the back of her head in his hand. “So you want the mani-pedi?”

She nods, pushing back enough to meet his eyes with a pathetic little sniffle. “I do.” She beams at him through her tears. “Definitely.”

He grins back. “Okay. Okay. Good.” He kisses her sweetly. “Thank you for carrying Josephine. I wish your wrists weren’t--”

“I know,” she says. “Me, too.” She tips her chin up, a wordless request for another kiss. Oliver obliges her with a grin, and the kiss is a little too toothy, but she can’t quite stop smiling either. “She’s worth it.”

Diggle brings the car to a stop and gives them a bemused grin. “We’re here.”

Felicity leans forward and squeezes his shoulder. “Thanks, Dig.”

“No problem,” he answers. “Oliver’s staying with you, and I’ll be back to collect you when you’re done. Enjoy it.”

Oliver steps out of the car, reaching back to help her maneuver awkwardly out of the backseat and to her feet. He accompanies her inside, settling in with a months-old issue of _Sports Illustrated_  while she’s ushered back to a massaging leather pedicure chair. Her swollen ankles and achey wrists enjoy the hour and half of pampering, and the fuchsia she chooses for her fingernails definitely makes her smile every time she catches sight of the bright colors.

Felicity's toenails are flawlessly painted a warm, chocolate-y color that is appropriately called “Partner in Crime" when she delivers Josephine Dearden Queen eight days later.

 

END CHAPTER FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Reader's choice whether you believe this story is in the same timeline as [Therein Lies the Denouement](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4971556/chapters/11418043). :)


	6. The Wonder - Fall, 2024

 

**Fall, 2024**

 

 

Oliver’s very favorite thing about his daughter is -- well, to be fair, there’s really not just one thing. It’s more of a list. A long list. 

Of everything about her, basically.

Josephine Dearden Queen is a revelation to him almost every day. He sees his father’s eyes, his mother’s self-assurance, Thea’s wit, his own regrettable stubbornness, and, most endearingly, the sparkling intellect of his wife _all_  packed into the small form of his daughter. 

She’s also so amazingly _herself_ , somehow -- a four-year-old dynamo that exhausts him more than most of the things he’d faced during his time away. Joey isn’t the natural athlete that he was at her age, but she _loves_  gymnastics anyway. She’s got her mother’s curious nature, an irrepressible energy level, and a fierce ability to focus when she’s doing something she loves. 

Like right now. 

She’s on the floor, practically folded in half so that she can color the dinosaur she’s drawn for Felicity. It’s purple and blue with crooked scales and red eyes, breathing an orangey flame like a dragon. Joey’s so intent on her work that she doesn’t hear the door open, or the familiar click of Felicity’s heels as approaches, offloading her keys, jacket, and bag as she goes. 

Oliver looks up from his spot on the couch, grinning as his wife reaches the living room doorway and steps out of her shoes, continuing towards them on bare feet. She’s wearing a flirty blue dress that shows off her curves, and Oliver lets his appreciative gaze linger. She still seems troubled, some days, by the changes to her hips and her breasts, but Oliver sees her strength and the creation of their child in her body, and is at _least_  as attracted to her as he’s always been. She’s still sexy as hell, but he’s even more worshipful now that he’s seen her carry his child.

Felicity approaches, dropping down beside him with a groan. “Hi,” she tells him softly, leaning in for a lingering kiss. It’s not until she settles in beside him and raises her voice that Joey notices her presence. “Hey, kid, come give your momma a kiss.”

Joey’s head whips around, her slightly tangled curls bouncing. “Momma!” She pushes herself up, then turns back to grab her drawing. She runs full tilt around the edge of the coffee table, ignoring her parents’ admonitions to slow down, and hurls herself onto the couch. With a giggle, she settles in against Felicity, her arms around her mother’s neck. “Hi, Momma.” 

“Hi, baby girl,” Felicity answers, and Oliver grins at the pet name. It’s what Donna still calls Felicity, and he’s pretty sure Felicity doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. “How was your day?”

“Good, Momma,” Joey chirps, climbing over Felicity’s lap to resettle between her parents. “Daddy and me went to the park and played on the swings and there was a really _loud_  squirrel--” She drops her drawing in favor of broad hand gestures meant to, Oliver assumes, sketch just how big the squirrel was-- “and he yelled at us on the way back and then I drew you this!” She picks the picture up and presents it to Felicity proudly.

Felicity’s eyes light up, and her smile is delighted as she accepts the slightly crumpled paper with the purple and blue dragon-like dinosaur. “Good job, Joey. Is this--”

“It’s Frankie!” Joey interrupts, too excited to wait for the entire question. Oliver, Felicity, and Joey went to the children’s museum a week ago, and Joey’d been enthralled by the giant dinosaur skeleton. When Felicity had explained to Joey that dinosaurs lived so long ago that no humans had ever seen them, so we only have their skeletons to go on, Joey’d asked what felt like a thousand follow up questions. She's relentless when she's interested in a subject. And somewhere in between an explanation of what fossils are and several failed attempts to explain just how long _100 million years ago_ was, Felicity’s offhand remark that, for all we know, dinosaurs were bright pink and purple with sequined scales had lit Joey’s imagination up. They’d ended up dropping over a $100 in the gift store on a large (drab green, sadly) dinosaur stuffed animal, three coloring books, and a large package of shiny dinosaur stickers, and Joey spent the rest of the day imagining aloud just what color combinations those "million ago dinosaurs" might have been.

The stickers are all over the back of Joey’s door, the coloring books are fully colored, and Joey inexplicably named her new favorite stuffed animal Jen the Dinosaur. And she created an imaginary, brightly colored friend for Jen -- Frankie, the blue and purple dinosaur who breathes fire and can fly. 

Joey has always had a vivid imagination; it fascinates Oliver, even when she’s asking twenty minutes’ worth of absurd questions that make connect to each other only in that amazing brain of hers.

“Oh,” Joey breathes, her eyes wide, “I need to show Frankie to Jen!”

She wriggles out from between them and scampers off to her room to grab her stuffed dinosaur.

Felicity huffs a laugh, leaning more heavily into Oliver as she traces the lines of Joey’s drawing. “This is pretty good,” she observes. She’s not wrong -- Joey has trouble coloring in the lines, but the basic shape is recognizably a dinosaur -- long neck, large body, big tail, and four semi-proportional legs. It’s the color choices that really make it clear that Frankie has sprung from the bright imagination of a four year old. Felicity smoothes the paper a bit. “I didn’t think the dinosaur thing would last this long.” 

Oliver grins, kissing his wife’s temple. “Dinosaurs are a kind of mystery, right?”

Her forehead crinkles. “Yes,” she agrees. The “so?” is silent, but he hears it in her tone. 

“She’s your daughter,” he explains. 

Felicity snuggles closer. “She climbed the bookshelf _yesterday_ ; she’s your kid, Oliver." 

Oliver laughs, but before he can argue, Joey comes tearing back into the living room, Jen clutched in one hand. “Momma, Momma, Momma, can we fix Daddy’s marks now?” Oliver leans forward, and Joey redirects, launching herself at him. She grins up at him. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, Josephine.” Oliver dips his head to kiss his daughter’s tiny nose, which makes her laugh and wriggle in a fake attempt to avoid him. She loves the scratch of his stubble, but likes to pretend she doesn’t. Her hand lands on his cheek and she pats his jaw.

“Daddy, can we fix your marks now?” She’s grinning up at him, and her enthusiasm makes his chest ache. 

He glances at Felicity with a wordless question. He can tell she’s had a long day -- Smoak Tech had a not-so-great Q3 and she’s been putting in long, tough hours to try to make sure the company rebounds quickly. It wouldn’t surprise him if she’s not up for taking care of him tonight.

But Felicity is already scooting forward on the couch, reaching for Joey. “Let’s go get everything ready for Daddy,” she says, and Joey goes eagerly into her mother’s arms, Jen the dinosaur dangling from her hand.

Oliver watches them head upstairs, then pushes himself up with a little groan and makes a detour for the kitchen. He grabs some apple juice for Joey, pours a half-glass of red wine for Felicity, and refills his water bottle before heading upstairs. He can hear their voices, Joey narrating everything she’s doing for her mother ("I put the towel down, Momma!"), and Felicity praising her and occasionally correcting her as needed. 

Pausing in the doorway to the master bedroom, Oliver watches his daughter crawling around on the bed, carefully straightening the dark blue bath sheet they’ve laid down to protect the purple and grey duvet. Felicity has the icy hot patches and the jar of cream for his scars on a small hand towel to the side -- Joey tends to need more cleaning up than Oliver after each "mark fixing" session.  It’s a ritual these days, now that 40 is fast approaching and his years of injury have started to make themselves known in the form of aches and pains, for his girls to spend an hour every couple days easing his pain and healing his scars. 

He can’t believe, some days, that this is his life. He can’t believe he deserves the kind of love his daughter and his wife give him so effortlessly.  

Before he can get too maudlin, Felicity spots him and reaches out her hand. “C’mon over here, mister.” She notices the wine in his hands and grins. “I knew I married you for a reason.”

Oliver hands her the wine glass and Joey’s apple juice -- they learned early that Joey was not a particularly good multitasker when she spilled orange juice down Oliver’s spine. He deposits his water bottle on the bedside table, tugs off his shirt, then climbs onto the mattress, settling on his stomach. He pulls his pillow closer, then cranes his neck to see Joey kneeling by his ribs. “Okay, Josephine.”

She pats his back twice and puts Jen the dinosaur right beside his face, making Oliver laugh. “Relax, Daddy,” she directs. "You can snuggle with Jen if you need to," she adds, then turns her attention to her mother. “Momma, can I have the Wonder?” Oliver grins into the pillow at Joey’s butchering of the complicated, pharmaceutical name of the scar cream. 

“Of course, baby girl,” Felicity answers. 

And they get to work. 

Felicity knows his tight spots, the deep tissue aches and pains that respond to the patches, so she methodically applies them. She takes a few moments to work on his muscles, too, massaging when she feels a knot. 

Joey, meanwhile, fingerpaints the white lines and raised skin of his scars with the healing cream. She’s so careful, and so gentle as she works. The first time they’d done this, by the time he’d flipped over to let them work on the scars on his chest, the sight of Joey leaning over him, her tongue between her teeth as she concentrated on soothing his old injuries had brought Oliver to tears. Joey hadn’t noticed the tears slipping down the sides of his face, but Felicity caught the way his breath hitched, cupping his face with her palms and pressing a soft kiss to his lips to ground him.

He doesn’t cry every time these days, but he feels it just as acutely. Joey is as openly affectionate as Felicity, and they both tell him at least once a day that they love him. But something about these moments, something about the way he can _feel_  the love in their careful touches, in the time and attention they put into making him feel just a little better, it hits him hard every time.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into the pillow, and he’s honestly not sure whether he’s thanking his girls, or whatever deity or fate brought him the two great loves of his life:  Felicity and Josephine.

His wife presses a kiss to the back of his shoulder, and his daughter pats him again. "You're welcome, Daddy."

Oliver smiles. “Thank you.”

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and happy father's day to the good dads out there!

**Author's Note:**

> Note: No regimented update schedule for this. Apologies in advance.


End file.
